


and this is how it starts

by mttibadabo



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, No Beta, Oral Sex, Pining, Rimming, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22520824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mttibadabo/pseuds/mttibadabo
Summary: As Geralt drinks, he half-listens to Jaskier prattling on about a woman who had been sitting at the table front of him as he played, making eyes at him the entire time. Geralt does his best to internalize the words, drowning the incessant need to touch Jaskier in the pain twisting his stomach. Finally, he reaches his breaking point.“Jaskier. What do I need to do to get you to shut up?”Jaskier stops, mouth parted and eyes darting down to Geralt’s mouth, just inches away. “Don’t you threaten me with a good time, Geralt.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 229
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	and this is how it starts

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic for this fandom, based around one of my favorite songs - "sex" by the 1975.

Geralt fights back irritation as he washes caked-on mud from his hands and forearms in what must be the only clear stream for miles. The bard in all his usual foolishness had tumbled headlong into the bog just east of their campsite, covering himself and most of his worldly possessions in a putrid mud that made even Geralt wrinkle his nose.

Jaskier had bathed and washed his clothes in the stream as Geralt set up their tents and started a fire, settling Roach in the only passable patch of grass he could find.

Geralt stands, shaking the water off of his hands and arms before turning back to the campsite. Jaskier sits next to the fire, warming his hands and... What is that he is wearing?

“Is that my...” Geralt starts, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, my dear witcher, I decided to borrow one of your shirts.”

“Would none of your own clothes do?”

Jaskier sighs, shoulders slumping forward a bit. “The mud and water soaked through my pack. I’ll be lucky if any of my clothes will be remotely salvageable after this - the stains will surely be horrendous.” He gestures to the tree branch behind him, where Geralt notices an assortment of clothes hanging out to dry before turning back to the sight of the bard in his shirt.

No matter what he tries, Geralt cannot pull his eyes from the bit of collarbone exposed when the bard leans forward to warm his hands over the fire. A dreadful, tingling feeling works its way from his core, through his limbs, pounding his skull, until he catches himself staring, lips parted, at the way the firelight danced on the pale skin so often hidden from the sun. He grunts, turning toward his tent.

“Going to bed so soon?” Jaskier looks up, a hint of concern in his voice. “It’s hardly gotten dark. Besides, you haven’t eaten anything yet.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jaskier stands, Geralt noticing his lack of pants for the first time. Heat pools in his stomach, and he grits his teeth in frustration. “Come, we can skin and roast the rabbit you killed earlier. That ought to pair nicely with... stale bread and hard cheese, yeah?”

“I said I’m not hungry,” Geralt growls, more bite in his voice than he intends. He needs to get to the tent, away from Jaskier and all of his skin, warm and glowing in the firelight.

The bard takes a step back, the corners of his mouth wavering downward. “Fine, I concede. I’ll be up a while longer, working through a delightful little melody that came to me on the road this afternoon.”

Geralt shrugs. “As long as it’s not that funeral dirge you insist is a love song, I don’t care what you play.” With that, he crawls into his tent and collapses onto the bedroll with clenched fists. Not even bothering to undress, he yanks the blanket over himself and screws his eyes shut. Every part of his body feels tense and twisted, as if he is trying to wring himself free of the unsettling feeling that has been growing in the pit of his stomach since stumbling upon the bard at the house of a nobleman a few days prior.

After a long night of hunting what turned out to be a young wyvern that had been feeding off the nobleman’s livestock, Geralt returned to the manor to collect his payment. Rounding the gate to the rear entrance of the home, he nearly ran into the man standing just inside the gate.

“Geralt!” the all-too-familiar voice exclaimed.

The clench in his chest at the sound of Jaskier’s voice confused Geralt. For a moment, he nearly smiled at the sight of the bard until he noticed the finely dressed young woman underneath his arm. The woman’s eyes widened at the sight of the Witcher, a reaction so common that Geralt barely registered it. His mouth set into a hard line without a thought, and he gave a curt nod. “Jaskier.”

Nearly a year had passed since he had last seen the bard, though his songs seemed to follow him, leaving a trail that Geralt could not seem to escape. Every inn and tavern he patronized seemed to know him as “the bard’s Witcher,” a phrase that slowly needed its way under his skin until he could hardly keep from throwing coins on the table and storming out of the inn he’d left two days prior. He belonged to no one, he needed no one, and no one needed him. His solitary existance felt comfortable, easy, and he had no intention of changing things.

Geralt did not stop long enough to decide how he felt about seeing the bard here, of all places, stepping past the couple and entering the manor. But the thought of Jaskier, the proximity of him, felt like a small pebble inside his boot; not painful, but uncomfortable and increasingly annoying as time passed.

The lord provided the agreed-upon payment, casting a disparaging glance at the blood smeared across the Witcher’s face and armor, the dirt and leaves matted in his hair. But coin was coin, and this payment would take care of Geralt and Roach for some time if finding another contract proved difficult.

Geralt exited the manor the way he came in, grateful when he saw the rear yard was empty. Making his way down the sloping walk to the post where Roach stood waiting, he heard that same voice calling his name, rankling him to the core.

“Geralt!”

He did not turn around.

“Ger _alt!”_

With one glance over his shoulder, he knew he had made a mistake. Jaskier stood underneath a tree with the young woman, her hands in his. With one fluid motion, he dipped her down into a deep kiss before murmuring words into her ear that Geralt could not quite discern. The woman nodded, and Jaskier dashed after Geralt. Only then did he realize that the bard carried his lute and a small pack. He turned, walking toward Roach with heightened urgency.

“Geralt! I know you hear me, you great brute.”

“What, Jaskier?” He cringed slightly at the harsh tone he used with the bard, especially as he saw a flicker of hurt cross his face.

Jaskier stopped a few feet from Geralt. He squared his shoulders, actually seeming to think before spouting meandering nonsense for the next hours. “Could I come with you?”

Geralt grunted, stowing the lord’s payment in one of Roach’s saddlebags. “Need more fodder for some ridiculous songs to spread across every corner of the continent?”

“No, actually,” Jaskier retorted. “I’m working on some new material now, thank you very much. Though I am always glad to hear such high praise of my past work.”

“Why come with me, then?”

Jaskier shrugged. “I need to earn some coin. And, believe it or not, I actually enjoy your coarse and ungrateful company.”

Geralt swung himself into the saddle, looking down at Jaskier. The bard tried to hard to hide the hopeful anticipation in his face, but Geralt could almost smell how eager he was to begin another journey. Every part of Geralt’s mind urged him to turn him down, tell him to find his own way to an inn where he could earn the coin he needed, until he thought of the bard travelling alone, getting lost or set upon by bandits or wolves or... worse.

“Fine.”

The joy that radiated from Jaskier’s face at that single word penetrated Geralt to his core, though he would never admit it. Keeping his face neutral, his mouth still set in the same hard line, he guided Roach toward the road.

“Ah, this will be just like old times!” Jaskier practically sang, falling into step next to Roach. “You know, maybe one or two more ballads about the daring adventures of the White Wolf wouldn’t hurt. They have proven to be quite popular with the people, after all.”

Geralt kept his eyes ahead, not willing to admit that he found the bard’s constant chatter to be a welcome reprieve from the silence of travelling alone, occasionally talking to his horse just to break the monotonous silence that sometimes stretched for days on end.

When they stopped for the night, Jaskier pulled out his lute, plucking a slow, somber tune and singing under his breath. Of the few words that Geralt could discern, he decided it must be a love song.

“Please tell me that is not about me,” he muttered, raising an eyebrow.

Jaskier looked up at him, caught off-guard as though he had not realized that Geralt had been sitting across the campfire from him the entire time. A high flush bloomed across his cheeks, and he smiled shyly. “Um... no, actually. You are not my only muse, my dear witcher.”

Geralt nodded, remembering the young woman from earlier in the day. “Good.”

Two nights later, Jaskier had fleshed out a bit more of the song, singing softly as Geralt brushed Roach down. The lyrics drifted over to him despite how he pointedly ignored the bard’s performance.

“ _I’m weak my love, and I am wanting  
If this is the path I must trudge  
I welcome my sentence  
Give to you my penance  
Garrotter, jury, and judge._”

Geralt heard Jaskier chuckle to himself, setting down the lute and scratching some notes into the small book he kept with him. “What do you think of that verse?” he called over to Geralt, despite surely knowing the answer.

“Not really my taste,” Geralt grunted, walking back to take a seat at the fire.

“Is _anything_ in your taste?”

“No.”

“Fine then.” Jaskier picked the lute up again, plucking out a lighter tune. “The least you could do is ask me about my lovely muse.”

Geralt did not respond, knowing full well that Jaskier would tell him regardless of his response.

“I have committed myself to the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on, my darling Liza.” He looked up to the sky wistfully, a soft smile on his face. “Her father was the one who contracted you to kill the wyvern, you know.”

Geralt grunted in response, forcing down the twinge of irritation building in his gut, though he was not sure what exactly it was in response to. If this journey was to be anything like their previous ventures, he would come to learn far more about the bard’s sex life than he ever cared to know.

“Congratulations,” he muttered.

“Oh, sod off,” Jaskier said. “I’m trying to grow up, maybe even settle down. Is that so bad?”

“How does travelling with me factor into settling down?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I can’t very well settle down without a penny to my name, can I? And you saw the house Liza grew up in. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Geralt heard a pang of sadness behind Jaskier’s words, his stomach twisting a bit. “Can’t say I see the appeal.”

“Well, of course you wouldn’t,” Jaskier said. “I imagine witchers are not often tempted by the finer things.”

“Not the house,” Geralt said. “The woman, I mean.”

Jaskier sat up straight, setting his lute down. Geralt knew he had gone too far, but something in him felt satisfaction at taking a dig at Jaskier’s most recent conquest. “You, sir, are a man of poor taste.”

Geralt shrugged. “I’ll admit that she is attractive,” he said, forcing the words out despite not remembering the woman’s face. “Though I can’t imagine she is one for waiting on a travelling bard.”

“Oh please,” Jaskier scoffed, though he leaned back against the tree truck and picked up his lute. “You never met her.”

“I saw the two of you saying your goodbyes,” Geralt said simply. “Witchers are perceptive.”

“Right,” Jaskier said, a sharp edge of sarcasm just beneath the surface. “Well, you’re wrong. Liza is different from the women I usually bed. In fact, she’s so different that she’s even saving herself for me.”

Geralt let out a shocked laugh, trying to cover it with a cough.

“What? It’s not that ridiculous of a concept that someone might value me that much, is it?”

Geralt stopped when he saw a flash of sadness, of pain on the bard’s face. The fact did not strike him as ridiculous at all. “You just don’t strike me as the patient type,” he said in a feeble attempt at recovery. 

“Liza is a lovely girl,” Jaskier said. “Well worth the wait. Besides, isn’t it about time I find someone nice to settle down with? And gods, the material I’m getting out of this is fantastic, Geralt, truly.” With a wink and an impish grin, he returned to his lute.

As the days passed, Geralt felt Jaskier working his way even further under his skin than before, when he had been merely a distant thought, a feeling somewhere between comfort and dread building in his stomach until he forced himself into his tent hours earlier than usual, if only to get away from the sight of the bard in his shirt and little else. He has seen the bard in all manners of undress, as is likely to happen when travelling together for extensive periods of time. But that sight eats away at his mind, no matter how he tries to think of something, of anything else.

\----------

Geralt wakes the next morning to hard rain pounding on the canvas above him. In the moment it takes his brain to gain clarity, he remembers where he left Roach tied the night before, out in the open where she would be cold and miserable by now. Cursing to himself, he rushes out into the rain, only to find her tied underneath the tree where Jaskier’s clothes, even wetter than before, hung on the branches.

“Everything okay?” Jaskier stumbles out of his own small tent, shivering in Geralt’s shirt that was already so soaked that it clung to every inch of his body. The bard’s tent did little to shield him from the rain overnight, his pale skin almost blue.

Geralt curses under his breath, ripping his eyes away and turning to Roach. “You moved Roach under the tree.”

“I did,” Jaskier says, walking toward his clothes hanging on the branches. He tugs down a pair of trousers, shrugs, and tugs them on. “The rain woke me, and she was my first thought. After making sure my lute was safe, of course.”

“You’re soaked through.”

“Ah, must be those keen witcher senses I’ve heard about. Very perceptive, you lot.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “You could have come to my tent. It’s big enough to keep the both of us dry,” he says, though part of him is grateful he had not. If even the thought of Jaskier could drive him as mad as it had the night before, such close proximity might have killed him.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier says. “And because I’m now just as wet as my own clothes, you can have your precious shirt back.” He pulls Geralt’s shirt over his head and hands it to him.

“Thanks,” Geralt mutters, averting his eyes. “For taking care of Roach, I mean.”

“Isn’t that what friends are for?”

Geralt cuts his eyes toward Jaskier, grateful for the doublet he had just pulled on, grunting in response to the soft smile in the bard’s eyes.

The two break camp as the rain lets up, though the sun remains hidden behind the clouds, doing little to warm the earth.

“There is a village half a day’s journey from here,” Geralt says as they set out. “With the state of the road, we should be there by nightfall.”

“Thank the gods,” Jaskier mutters, shivering as he wraps his arms around himself. “Though I don’t know how I will stand trudging through this mud all day.”

By late afternoon, the rain picks up again. Every few minutes, Jaskier lets out a rather dramatic wail about how he will never be dry or warm again. Rounding a bend in the road, Geralt makes out a few buildings in the distance, much to his own relief. “I believe I can see the village,” he says. “Not much longer.”

Upon arriving in the village, Geralt is happy to find a small inn. He sends Jaskier inside to arrange their lodging while he gets Roach settled in the barn out back. After spending more time with Roach than usual, because of her miserably wet and muddy state after the day’s journey, he is not surprised to see Jaskier coming to find him.

“Did you not have enough coin?” he asks, before he notices the two plates of food in one of Jaskier’s hands, two mugs of ale in the other.

“Too much, actually,” Jaskier says, his voice low and listless. “No free rooms, can you imagine that? In a tiny hamlet like this, I’m shocked - bewildered, even - to think they have enough business to justify an inn, much less to sell out of their rooms completely!”

Geralt frowns, noticing the way Jaskier’s hands trembled. He has been soaked through since the night before, with little reprieve from the rain. “Come, we’ll figure something out after we eat,” he says, taking the food and drink from the shivering bard.

“The innkeeper, lovely woman that she is, said we could stay in the barn’s loft.”

Geralt nods; considering the other options at hand, a hay loft seems better than a palace. “Is that fine with you?”

Jaskier laughs. “It feels like the best news I’ve ever gotten.”

A small smile forms on Geralt’s lips at the bard’s happiness, which seems to cause Jaskier to smile even wider. The same warmth grows in his stomach at the sight, though it feels softer, more manageable than the night before. “Let’s eat, then.”

After climbing up into the loft, Geralt spreads his bedroll out on one side while Jaskier makes his way to the other. He sits down to pull off his boots when he hears a cry from the shadows where Jaskier stood. “Everything okay?”

“Okay?” Jaskier asks, his voice so tight it sounds as though it might break at any moment. “Of course everything is okay. I’m just damp, chilled to the bone and have been for the past day, with no dry clothes in my pack. And to top it off, my damned bedroll is somehow even colder and damper than I am. Geralt, I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again.”

Jaskier’s piteous voice and the tears welling up in his eyes push Geralt to take action, despite knowing how miserable he will be for the second night in a row. “Take your clothes off,” he says, keeping his voice steady as he undressed himself.

“What?” Jaskier asks softly. “But Geralt, I’m so cold.”

“That’s why you need to undress,” Geralt says.

“I hope you aren’t thinking of seducing me as a way to warm me up,” Jaskier teases, despite the tremble in his voice that Geralt half hopes was just a result of the cold.

“Hardly. Body heat is the most effective way to prevent hypothermia. We’ll share my bedroll tonight.”

“Hypothermia?” Jaskier’s eyes are wide and fearful. “Do you really think…?”

“If you sleep all night in your cold and wet clothes, yes. Now undress and get in bed.”

Jaskier nods meekly as Geralt settles into the bedroll, steeling himself for what was to come next.

“You’re sure?” Jaskier asks, his voice just above a whisper.

“This would hardly be my first time sharing a bed with a companion to keep warm.” Geralt grits his teeth, keeping his eyes averted. “Come on.”

Jaskier settles in next to him, both slotting together on their sides to fit, with Jaskier’s back against Geralt’s chest. Geralt feels suffocated by the nearness of the bard, burning despite the cold skin against his own. He clenches his fists with the effort it takes to focus on anything but the shivering man in front of him, to no avail.

Jaskier’s trembling eases, his breaths growing deeper and steadier as he drifts off to sleep. Only then does Geralt allow himself to relax as he eases the tension out of his shoulders and leans forward. His head dips forward, bumping against the nape of Jaskier’s neck. Geralt stills, holding his breath until he realizes he has not woken the bard. When he breathes in again, Jaskier’s scent almost overwhelms him - clean rain, sandalwood soap, with just a hint of sweat. Geralt bites his lip to suppress a groan but cannot stop his arm from wrapping around the bard’s waist and pulling him in closer.

Jaskier stirs in his sleep but does not wake; instead, he leans back into Geralt’s embrace with a satisfied sigh. Pressing his forehead into the nape of Jaskier’s neck, Geralt clenches his teeth as he feels fear overtake him for the first time he canremember in ages. All at once, he understands the feeling that has been building in his gut since Jaskier joined him a week prior.

Fuck.

—————

Somehow, Geralt drifts off to sleep during the night. When he wakes, Jaskier lays nearly on top of him, his head on his chest and Geralt’s arms wrapped around him. He begins to extricate himself from Jaskier’s grip but stopps at the sound of Jaskier mumbling in his sleep - “ _Liza._ ”

Pain shoots through Geralt’s chest like an arrow, seeping through his body like poison. He tightens his arms around Jaskier, savoring the final moments before the bard wakes up, disappointed to find whose bed he lies in. As Jaskier shifts in his sleep, Geralt feels something pressing into his hip. After a moment of confusion, a wave of equal parts dread and arousal washes over him. Blood flows to his own cock as he inhales sharply, wishing the bard would just wake up already and put him out of his misery.

Almost by accident, he nudges his hipbone against Jaskier, causing him to groan. Before Geralt can process the sweet sound, Jaskier’s eyes drift half open, then widening all at once as he sees Geralt staring up at the rafters of the barn. Within a moment, Jaskier turns away from Geralt and stands, marching toward where his clothes lay to dry.

Geralt sits up and clears his throat, but the bard either does not hear him or wishes to ignore him despite the lingering scent of arousal. So be it. He stands and dresses, before walking to the edge of the loft to climb down. “I’go into the inn and get something to eat. Do you want anything?”

“Hmm?” Jaskier turns, pretending as if he only just noticed Geralt’s presence in the loft. “Oh, I’ll just take a smaller portion of whatever you’re having.”

Geralt nods, descending the ladder.

Upon returning to the barn, laden with bread, a small portion of fried ham, and some dried fruit, Geralt finds Jaskier sitting with his back against the wall and fiddling with the ties on his shoes. Geralt sits down next to him, spreading the food out between them.

After a few moments of blessed silence, Jaskier clears his throat. “Geralt, I... I want to apologize. For the state I was in this morning when I woke.”

Geralt grunts, nodding. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“Are you sure?” Jaskier asks, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. “You seemed awfully uncomfortable when I woke.”

“Not because I was offended,” Geralt says with a shrug, glancing up to meet the bard’s eye. Jaskier furrows his brow for a moment, before his eyes go wide and his mouth hangs open.

“O - oh...” he says, drawing the word out before breaking out into a laugh.

Geralt’s chest clenches, though he supposes laughter was preferable to disgust, or even hatred. He keeps his eyes trained on the chunk of bread in his hand, waiting for Jaskier to compose himself.

“Oh!” Jaskier says, catching his breath as he wipes a tear from his eye. “Gods, what a relief.”

Geralt raises a brow, watching as Jaskier reaches out to lay a hand on his arm.

“You and I aren’t so different after all, Witcher,” Jaskier stays, leaning closer to Geralt. “I only wish I had known sooner.”

Jaskier’s proximity, the smell of him overwhelms Geralt’s senses as he forces down the dry bread in his mouth. “Why is that?” he asks, his voice wavering.

“Because I’ve always wondered what it would be like to do this.” Jaskier leans forward, placing one soft hand on Geralt’s face before pressing their lips together.

Geralt’s eyes widen at the initial contact, before he allows himself to sink into the kiss. Jaskier’s hands soon find their way to his hair, combing through the long strands so lovingly that Geralt feels as though he might burn alive from the inside out. But just as he wraps an arm around the bard’s waist and runs his tongue along his bottom lip, Jaskier pulls away and settles back against the wall.

“Wow,” he says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand despite the relatively chaste kiss. “You’ve rendered me speechless, my dear witcher.”

Geralt chuckles, trying to rid himself of the tightness in his chest. “Good to know.”

—————

The two continue to travel together as if the kiss had been meaningless, as if Geralt can look at Jaskier without his chest constricting so hard that he can barely draw breath. Jaskier, as expected, is oblivious to Geralt’s pain, though the witcher does everything in his power to hide the truth from him. He rolls his eyes at the bard’s love songs about Liza, raises an eyebrow at the occasional flirtatious touch that singes his skin. When he lies alone in his tent at night, Geralt searches his skin, sure that he will see burn marks on his arms, his thighs, his chest.

Two weeks after the kiss, they stop at a busy inn where Jaskier can perform and Geralt hopes to find a contract or two. As usual, Geralt sends Jaskier in to arrange their lodging while he tends to Roach.

When Geralt enters the inn, Jaskier is already tuning his lute and dodging the advances of a barmaid old enough to be his mother. “Ah, Geralt!” he calls across the crowded room, eyes pleading for the witcher to rescue him.

“Did you pay for a room?” he asks, ignoring Jaskier leaning away from the woman’s ample bosom.

“Y - yes, I did,” Jaskier manages, standing to get away from the woman. “Last one on the left.”

Nodding, Geralt walks up the stairs as he hears the first notes of a tawdry song about a fishmonger’s daughter. When he reaches the last room on the left, he chokes back a cry when he sees that the room only contains one bed. Cursing, he tosses his bag down onto the floor. Damn that bard. Geralt struggles to breathe when he stands too close, his body thrumming with need. Sleeping next to the man will be impossible.

After another moment spent stewing in the room, Geralt strides back down to the bar and orders a drink. Despite his pain, he takes a seat in the far corner of the room where he can still see Jaskier and his lute, watching him charm the townspeople and win their hearts, just like he had done with Geralt.

The drinks keep coming until Geralt can almost forget about the bed upstairs. Just as he decides to go up to the room and make himself comfortable on the floor, Jaskier slides in next to him and waves to the barmaid. “Two more drinks for my friend and I!”

Geralt much prefers the bard sitting next to him as opposed to across the table. He finds it easier to think, speak, focus on the drink in his hand without the distraction of blue eyes directly in his line of sight. Even if their knees graze each other every once in a while, the contact like the strike of a match despite the many layers of clothing separating their skin. And Jaskier’s skin... Fuck. Maybe being forced to avoid his eyes would have been preferable.

As Geralt drinks, he half-listens to Jaskier prattling on about a woman who had been sitting at the table front of him as he played, making eyes at him the entire time. Geralt does his best to internalize the words, drowning the incessant need to touch Jaskier in the pain twisting his stomach. Finally, he reaches his breaking point.

“Jaskier. What do I need to do to get you to shut up?”

Jaskier stops, mouth parted and eyes darting down to Geralt’s mouth, just inches away. “Don’t you threaten me with a good time, Geralt.”

Before he can stop himself, Geralt grabs Jaskier by the arm, dragging him up the stairs. The moment the door closes behind him, Geralt pulls the bard into his arms, their mouths meeting with all the pent-up energy that had been built over the weeks since they first kissed. This time, Jaskier opens his mouth first, drawing a deep groan from Geralt’s throat as his tongue slips into the bard’s mouth.

With one arm wrapped around Jaskier’s waist, Geralt lowers him on to the bed and kisses his way down the column of Jaskier’s throat. The little breathy moans that escape the bard’s lips are the most beautiful sounds Geralt has ever heard. The nimble fingers tangled in his hair tug ever so slightly, making Geralt involuntarily buck his hips against Jaskier’s thigh.

“Fucking hell, Geralt,” Jaskier moans, grazing his own hips against the witcher’s.

Geralt looks at the bard, his forehead sweaty and his hair disheveled. He has never seen anything more beautiful. His hand trails down Jaskier’s stomach. “Is this okay?” he murmurs into the skin just behind Jaskier’s ear, breathing in the smell of him and shuddering.

Jaskier stills, going silent. After a moment with Geralt’s hand frozen on his stomach, he rolls out from under Geralt and sits on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. “I... I can’t, Geralt. I want to - gods, more than I’ve wanted anything - but I made a promise to Liza.”

Geralt collapses onto his back, his stomach churning. “She’s not here. She’s not here to take care of you, Jaskier, but I am.”

“I know,” Jaskier whispers, staring at the fire in the hearth.

“Let me take her place,” Geralt murmurs, placing a hand on Jaskier’s back. He flinches, almost imperceptibly, and Geralt withdraws his hand. “Just for tonight.”

“I can’t,” Jaskier said, and Geralt watches a tear roll down his cheek.

He stands up from the bed, straightening his clothes. “You take the room tonight. I already planned on giving you the bed, but I can find somewhere else to sleep.”

“Geralt, don’t be ridiculous.” Jaskier stands, reaching out for Geralt.

“I’m not. I need a decent night’s rest, and I can’t have that so close to you.”

Geralt falters out of the room and down the stairs, not sure if he is drunk on cheap ale or on Jaskier. Unsure of where else to go, he makes his way to the stable. Ignoring Roach’s concerned nickering, he climbs up into the hayloft before realizing he has forgotten to bring his bedroll. Unable to face returning to the room, he lies down on the hay and accepts the lot he had been given.

Still aroused, and alone at night for the first time since first running into Jaskier weeks ago, Geralt reaches into his pants and wraps his hand around his cock. He strokes himself roughly, with no rhythm as he bites down on his other fist to keep from calling out for Jaskier. He comes over his hand after only a few moments, eyes squeezing shut and the taste of his own blood in his mouth.

\----------

If asked why he did not get up and leave the next morning without Jaskier, Geralt could not have provided an answer. The sight of the bard and the sad eyes that meet his before averting themselves wound Geralt nearly to the core, but not as badly as abandoning him would have.

Their days are quiet for weeks, with most conversations limited to simple, utilitarian topics. Jaskier rarely even sings, plucking the same morose tunes on his lute with no lyrics to reveal what weighs on his mind, but Geralt does not have to ask. He can see the heartbreak and the longing in Jaskier’s eyes, how much he misses his _darling Liza._

The two make good money, Jaskier’s purse growing fatter with each night spent performing at an inn. Geralt knows he will be ready to return to Liza soon, with enough money and growing fame to prove his worth, and he does his best to come to terms with that truth.

On the nights when he cannot stand the thought, Geralt leaves his bed and wanders. If the two are staying at an inn, he walks down to the stable to talk to Roach, sitting in her stall and quietly airing his grievances.

On one particular evening, a stable hand finds him, head in his hands as he tells Roach how much he wants to _hate_ Jaskier. When the man steps into the stall, Geralt curses himself for letting his guard down, until the man kneels between his legs and places his hands on Geralt’s face, before starting to kiss him. “That bard,” the man says between kisses, “Is a fool for turning you away.”

Half of Geralt wants to hit the man for insulting Jaskier; the other half agrees, melting into the first human touch that wanted him above anyone else, at least at the moment. When the man pulls Geralt’s pants down, taking his cock into his mouth, Geralt groans almost as if he were in pain. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the stall wall, imagining Jaskier’s fine mouth around his cock. The man does a passable job, enough for Geralt to spill down his throat with Jaskier’s name on his lips.

The man looks up with a glare, wiping his mouth. “Least you could have done is warned me,” he mutters, standing up. “Not to mention keeping another man’s name out of this.”

Geralt shrugs, his head clearing as he tucks himself back into his pants. “I don’t know yours, so I went with the best option.”

“My name is -”

Geralt shakes his head, cutting him off. “Don’t want to know it. I’ll be gone in the morning, and you’ll never see me again.”

If Geralt and Jaskier are in the wilderness, Geralt roams until he finds something, anything to fight. A bandit, a nest of ghouls, or a pack of wolves looking to start a fight. He returns to camp as the sun rises, covered in blood and whatever else, eyes dark. Jaskier never asks if he is okay, but the way he watches Geralt as he washes and packs his things gives Geralt some comfort, the concern communicated in his attentive eyes.

The days pass, and the tension between the two dissipates once again. Jaskier talks more, while Geralt pretends to be annoyed by the sound of his voice. But the bard still does not sing, unless they stop at an inn where he can perform.

After one particularly brutal contract - a noonwraith that had taken over a patch of farmland - Geralt wakes the next morning aching all over, grateful to at least be in an inn with a decent bed for the first time in three weeks. Jaskier lays snoring across the room, one arm dangling off the bed, despite the sunlight streaming in through the window. Geralt decides that they could both use another day of rest and calls for a bath.

Jaskier wakes as the bath and hot water arrive, rubbing his eyes. “I suppose I’ll wander downstairs, see if I can find a bite to eat.”

“You don’t have to go if you’re still tired,” Geralt says. “I’m fine if you stay.” The words barely catch in his throat, the dull longing in his chest fleeting. Perhaps he can move past his feelings.

Geralt removes his clothes and steps into the bath, more than aware of the bard’s eyes looking anywhere but toward him. He groans as the warm water eases the tension in his muscles.

“Are you hurt, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, lying on his bed facing the wall.

“Just sore and stiff. That’s what the bath is for.”

“I could... I could help with that,” Jaskier says, his voice timid as though expecting to get turned down.

Geralt knows he should stop this line of conversation, but he is too relaxed to care. “How?”

“I’ve got some lotion in my bag. It’s chamomile, good for aching muscles. I could rub it into your back. If you don’t mind, that is.”

Geralt smirks at the bard’s carefully selected words. “Alright,” he agrees, to his own surprise. “When I’m done with my bath.”

He doesn’t rush through his bath, but he doesn’t take his time either, not wanting to overthink Jaskier’s offer enough to talk himself out of it. Geralt stands, toweling himself off as he steps out of the bath.

“Don’t get dressed,” Jaskier calls from his bed. “I mean, the lotion can stain clothes. I learned that the hard way. Just... drape a towel over yourself if you want to and lay on your stomach on the bed.”

Geralt follows his instructions, deciding at the last moment to leave the towel across the room. He knows his time with Jaskier draws toward an end, and he does not want to regret not taking one final chance. “Ready when you are.”

He hears Jaskier sit up and exhale sharply. “Sweet Melitele,” he whispers, unaware that Geralt can hear him.

Jaskier slips across the room, bare except for a thin pair of cotton pants. “It might be best if I... straddle you. More even distribution, and all.”

“Whatever you feel is best,” Geralt mutters, his voice level despite the blood rushing to his cock. He feels Jaskier settle on the back of his thighs, groaning as the bard grows hard against his ass.

“Is that okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Of course not,” Geralt scoffs. “Get on with it, will you?”

Jaskier rubs the lotion into Geralt’s back, in slow and methodical strokes. Geralt sighs into the touch of his talented fingers as they firmly circle out from his spine, then down, stopping just above the top of his ass and making their way back up. The teasing pattern repeates twice more before Jaskier makes his way further down.

“Would you like me to…?”

“Gods, please,” Geralt almost whines as Jaskier kneads his ass. Geralt’s mind feels slow, clouded with how much he wants Jaskier, wants him to touch every inch of his body.

Jaskier’s hands circle closer and closer to the cleft of Geralt’s ass, each pass making it harder for Geralt to breathe, until a lotion-slicked thumb passes over his hole. The noise that erupts from Geralt’s mouth in that moment feels truly inhuman, a long moaning whine followed by the sound of Jaskier panting. Two more passes of Jaskier’s thumb have Geralt trembling and groaning, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out across his back.

Jaskier leans back, rearranging his weight. Geralt can’t help but whine at the absence of his hands as the bard pushes his legs apart and kneels between them. His heart is in his throat, pounding as though he was fighting for his life, until he feels something slick and wet pressing against his hole.

Maybe he is fighting for his life, Geralt realized as the hot muscle of Jaskier’s tongue circles his hole. His legs shake, and he bites down on his pillow to keep from moaning too loudly. Jaskier’s clever, beautiful mouth pulls him apart as he works his way into Geralt, who cannot stop from bucking his hips against the bard’s mouth.

“Jaskier, please,” he whines, lifting his hips and shifting his weight onto his knees. “Please...”

“Please what, my dear witcher?”

“Please... f-fuck me...”

Jaskier pauses, pulling away from Geralt. “You know I can’t do that, Geralt.”

“What difference does it make?” Geralt spits over his shoulder, hand circling his own cock. “Do you think Liza won’t care if you fuck me with your mouth, only with your cock?”

“It’s... it’s different,” Jaskier mutters, mouthing against Geralt once again. “Let’s just have our fun, Geralt. Don’t spoil it.”

Despite himself, Geralt shudders as Jaskier’s tongue returneds to his hole, pushing past the initial resistance to enter him. He groans, fucking himself on the bard’s tongue as Jaskier’s hand takes over for his own. If this is all he gets, he will survive. He could never force his bard past his comfort level.

With a final groan, Geralt comes onto the bed, collapsing in his own spend. Jaskier chuckes, running his fingers once more over Geralt’s slick hole as he trembled through the end of his orgasm. “You did so good,” the bard murmurs into his ear before standing up and walking back across the room.

“What about you?” Geralt asks, his eyes shut as he drifted close to sleep.

“Don’t worry about me, dear,” Jaskier said. “You get some rest.”

Geralt nods, easing himself into a deep and dreamless sleep.

When he wakes, the light streaming through the window indicates it is late afternoon. Geralt shifts, still slick from the lotion, with dried cum on his stomach. The events of the morning come flooding back to him, and he looks around the room to see if Jaskier is awake yet. But... the bard’s bed stands empty, the bed clothes made up. His bag and his lute are nowhere to be found.

A strangled sob escapes Geralt’s throat as he punches his pillow, cursing himself for being too eager and chasing his bard away. If only he could have shown more restraint, Jaskier would still be here. He wouldn’t be out on the road, on his own. In danger.

Geralt noticed a note laying on the bedside table. He rips it open to see Jaskier’s elegant handwriting:

_My dear Geralt - please forgive me for leaving while you sleep. I fear that if I wait until you wake, I may never leave your side. I must go, for both our sake. I care for you too deeply to let this continue, only for the both of us to be hurt when I must return to Liza. Things cannot progress further for us. You must continue your journey on the Path, and I would only hinder you. I will only continue to age and slow, putting you in danger. I hope you think of me fondly and know that I care for you more than anyone else in the world. My love, know that if this is the path I must trudge, I welcome my sentence._


End file.
